


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by sevendials



Series: Phases [2]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Christmas Music, Fluff, Language, M/M, Romance, Seasonal, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevendials/pseuds/sevendials
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some lines only work if you're Dean Martin and are talking to someone who definitely isn't Ken Hidaka, but that never stopped Youji from trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Standard Disclaimer: _Weiss Kreuz_ , it’s characters, indices and all other properties I have forgotten to mention are the property of Kyoko Tsuchiya, Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiss, TV Tokyo, Movic, several other US companies whose names I don’t know and probably the cat. I appropriate them only for the sake of a bit of fangirl fun and promise I’ll give them back as soon as I'm done. No profit is or will be made from this piece of silly seasonal related fluff.
> 
> Author’s Note: Well, it's been a long time since I've written one of these. A sequel-of-sorts to _2/14: The Florist's Tale_ in that it takes place on the same timeline and relies on the assumption that Youji and Ken are in an established relationship and that’s about it, this fic owes its genesis to a conversation I had while driving home with my other half sometime early this month. This time we were talking about the possibility of my writing a Youji/Ken fluff fic based around the Christmas standard _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_ because he knows how my brain works. The only things I added were 1. An entirely spurious time limit that saw me killing myself trying to get the thing out before the 25th, seasonal ailments and trips home be damned and 2. The words. This isn’t specifically a Christmas story in much the same way that _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_ is only nominally a Christmas song, but it’s definitely wintry for all that.

“—all I’m saying is you should sit down and actually listen to it sometime.”  
“It’s in English.”  
“And?”  
“And since when could I speak goddamn English, Youji? Fuck sake.”  
“Trust me, Kenken, when Dean Martin tells a lady the weather looks dreadful he is not reminding her to be sure she wears her coat.”

Half past two on a winter’s afternoon and the _Koneko_ was almost looking preferable.

It wasn’t exactly like Ken minded shopping. Sure, it wasn’t something he’d do for fun and it wasn’t like he ever wanted to linger over it when there were about ten thousand less boring things to do with your afternoon than hang round in Super Yuki staring at soy sauce, but it – well, it just _was_ , really. It had to be done and it wasn’t worth complaining about when complaining wouldn’t get the groceries in. Shopping, as shopping, wasn’t the problem: shopping with Youji was.

__

Youji, or so Ken thought, was no better at buying things than he was at selling them. He dawdled, hands in pockets, gazing intently over an entirely useless pair of sunglasses at everything vaguely young and female-shaped that made the mistake of walking into his sight; he completely ignored the shopping list, dumping bottles of wine and far-too-expensive cuts of meat into Ken’s shopping cart without even asking if he minded, still less if they needed them. And he spent fifteen minutes explaining in painful detail why a song Ken was almost convinced he’d never heard all the way through was all about… this was Youji. There was nothing in the world he wouldn’t turn into an excuse to talk about picking up girls.

“I can’t believe,” Ken grumbled, hefting a bag of rice into the cart, “that a line like that would actually work.”  
Youji nodded. “It probably helps if you’re Dean Martin.”

It was just too bad Ken didn’t have the first idea who Dean Martin was, really. American guy, right? Wore a hat. They all wore hats back then and so did Youji, like he thought he was a long-lost Blues Brother. At least up here in the mountains he was doing it in company, even if _that_ hat and _that_ coat still left him looking like he thought the minute he was done in here he was going to arrest Al Capone.

“It’d probably _help_ ,” Ken pointed out, “if you tried finding the kelp or something instead of going on about Dean Martin.”  
“Hey, you stick to what you’re good at, Ken, and I’ll stick to mine.”  
“What’s that, then? Staring at girls and driving me crazy?”

Yeah, that probably _had_ been a stupid question.

The annoying thing was that he’d been sent here to help. More accurately, they were supposed to be in this together. And here they were on the job a day and a half and Ken was already wondering if he should poison someone’s food (didn’t matter if it was his or Youji’s, so long as _someone_ died) and get it over with that way…

It started with a mission: didn’t it always start there? A corrupt detective and his buddies had graduated from taking kickbacks from the yakuza to eliminating inconvenient witnesses for them, and that wouldn’t have been worth writing home about if it hadn’t been for the bit where Omi’s plan meant the detective’s death had to look like it could have been natural. Not an insurmountable problem when he wasn’t as young as he had been and had a fondness for winter sports, but it was going to require a lot more patience before the fact, and a decent amount of lying-low afterward – at least until the police cleared off and his body was safely back in Tokyo.

That wasn’t an insurmountable problem either when they had a ready-made base and an excuse to match and who cared if Youji wasn’t happy at his cabin being commandeered again. Ken didn’t, not that it had stopped Youji telling him about it all the way to the store. Of course it wasn’t like he didn’t want the mission done, but it was his cabin not Kritiker’s and did they know how much work it had taken to get the place back into something like order after the last time— _et cetera, et cetera._

Ken thought Youji was whining about nothing. What else were they supposed to do, camp out up here? In the middle of winter, in heavy snow and with more on the way? To Hell with _that_.

The cabin it was. But that meant making sure the cabin was stocked and ready beforehand, and _that_ meant Ken was going to be taking a trip to the mountains for the sake of spending an afternoon in a Super Yuki. With Youji Kudou, whose idea of _helping out_ was… well, if Ken was feeling kind he’d call it personal. It was just too bad for Youji that by the time they’d paid for the shopping and were heading back to the car through the filthy, churned-up snow of the parking lot, Ken was in no mood to be kind.

“My shoes,” Youji said, surveying the snow as if it had offended him personally, “are gonna get ruined.”  
“What, really? What’re they made of, paper?”

It didn’t help Ken’s mood that he hadn’t seen the sun all day. It was up there somewhere, he guessed, but hidden, completely concealed behind a mantle of clouds as if even it had bundled up for the winter. The clouds hung heavy, low and swollen; he fancied they looked bruised. Christ, winter sucked sometimes.

“You know, Ken,” Youji was saying as, hands in pockets and a cigarette between his lips, he stood and watched Ken loading their shopping into the trunk, “when I said we were going to need a more suitable car, I didn’t mean a Nissan March.”  
Oh, he did not. Ken slammed the trunk closed and gave Youji a look. “Next time you can go to the goddamn motor pool, then, you were the one said I should do it!”  
“That was before I knew what a disaster your taste in cars was.”  
“It wasn’t _my_ taste, it was Birman’s… Hey, if you don’t like it why the Hell won’t you let me drive?”  
“You forget,” Youji said, folding himself elegantly behind the wheel, “I’ve seen you drive. And Ken? I’m damned if I’m going to die in a purple Nissan March.”

____

It was snowing again by the time they’d got the groceries back to the cabin. Once they (read: Ken) had finished unpacking and stowing them in closets and iceboxes, the wind had picked up and was rattling at the windows while the shadows lengthened and the evening closed in about them.

Youji had turned on the radio – saxophones and American voices, again – leaving it burbling quietly to itself while he sat on the couch and very slowly restocked a first-aid kit and Ken bustled about in the kitchen, making tea and finding homes for tins. Youji was a past master at that, at doing absolutely nothing in a busy kind of way so that nobody (read: Ken) could accuse him of not working. Not that it stopped Ken, but he must have figured that at least this way he had something to point at.

“I can’t believe it takes that long to put bandages away,” Ken said.

But he’d made them both tea, so he couldn’t have been that annoyed. He sat heavily down opposite Youji, pushing Youji’s mug across the table by his fingertips and wrapping his hands about the sides of his own.

“That’s because I’m a craftsman, Ken,” Youji said, “and I wouldn’t expect a Philistine like you to understand the impulses of an artist.”  
Ken snorted over the rim of his mug. “You mean you’re lazy.”  
“True art takes time. Shut up a minute, will you?”  
“What?” Ken frowned. Spent a moment or two wrangling with himself over whether or not to get angry. “Why?”  
“Weather report,” Youji said.  
“Since when,” Ken said incredulously, “do you listen to the weather forecast?”  
“I do when I’ve got a date this evening and I’d like to know what my chances are for making it.”

Not good, as it turned out.

Nobody had mentioned the blizzard. (Ken blamed Youji for not checking the forecast first.) Nobody, that was, before the young woman on the radio started talking far too cheerfully about cold fronts and thirty-centimeter drifts and bitter winter winds. If you’re traveling do take extra care – driving conditions, she said as if she was talking about something entirely pleasant, could become treacherous…

Ken frowned, putting down his cup, glancing out of the window at the drifting snow. From here it looked almost pretty, but he gave it an irritated glare anyway. The plan – at least on his part: Kudou, what’s this about a _date_? – had been to stay in the cabin overnight then drive back first thing. The plan, in the face of impassable roads and drifts that could take three or four days to clear, was clearly going to have to change. Either they left tonight or got dug out in, what, just under a week? Did they even have a week to spare?

“We leave now,” Ken said, getting to his feet, “we’ll probably make it. The roads can’t get blocked _that_ quick.”

Youji raised his head, then his eyebrows. “Now? What’s the rush?”

He shouldn’t have sounded so startled. Youji looked for all the world like a man who would have found the trek to the kitchen too much like hard work, never mind driving back to Tokyo. Sprawled on the couch with his legs stretched out beneath the table and a steaming mug of tea in his hand, he could only have made a more perfect picture of fireside domesticity if he’d been wearing a robe and backless slippers and had acquired a tartan blanket from somewhere – and, quite possibly, a small furry animal to accessorize with.

Maybe, Ken thought, this was supposed to be some kind of joke. One of those ones that only made any sense if you were Youji…

“What are you talking about? Of course _now_.”  
“You want to go out in that?” Youji asked, as if such a thing would be a sign of incipient dementia.  
Not really, no. Too bad what Ken wanted wasn’t the issue. “Hey, you’re the one wanted back for your date…”  
“Ken,” Youji said calmly to his mug, “didn’t I just tell you I had no intention of dying in a purple Nissan March? That thing’s got a two-star safety rating, and I can’t date anybody if I’m upside down in a ditch and on fire.”  
“Shut up. You’re not funny and we can’t stay here.”  
And all Youji said was, “Why not?”

Ken knew he’d been about to say something. He must have been, his mouth was open, but with his thoughts all tripping over one another and collapsing in a heap it was anyone’s guess what that something had been supposed to be. Why not? What the Hell did he mean, why not?

He closed his mouth. He took a deep breath. Okay, back up.

“Because we’ll get stuck here.”  
“Doesn’t look like such a bad deal from where I’m sitting. Of course,” Youji said, because it clearly wasn’t like he’d annoyed Ken enough for one afternoon or something, “it’d be rather better if you were a pretty girl, but we can’t have everything…”  
“What about the mission?” Ken asked. (Ignore it, Hidaka. Sure, you probably look like you’re bristling but that doesn’t mean you have to _say_ anything and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to you. Just _ignore_ it.) “Youji, we need to get back, he’s gonna be—”  
“Going absolutely nowhere, in this weather.” Youji took a sip of his tea, his expression calm as ever. “If we can’t get out of the mountains, the target’s not likely to be able to get in.”  
“But we can,” Ken said, “If we leave now.”

Youji just gazed flatly at him, and the expression on his face said that hadn’t been what he meant and Ken was missing the point again. I know, the look in his eyes was saying, that acting like an idiot makes you happy for some reason I still can’t quite fathom, but I can’t believe even you would want to ride a damn motorbike back to Tokyo through all that weather…

Except that was missing the point, too. Youji’s problem was that he paid entirely way too much attention to the things he wanted to do.

“Sit down,” Youji said. “Finish your tea. At least wait for the snow to stop.”  
“Nice try, Kudou.” Ken – if there was one thing you picked up in a convent, it was how to bend the rules without actually going so far as to break them – reached for his cup and downed the rest of the tea, still slightly too hot, in a couple of gulps. Waste not, want not, thanks Sister Helena. “You heard the radio, it’s not gonna stop… ow, I think I burned my tongue.”  
“Well, whose fault is that? For God’s sake, kid, you’ll freeze out there. Sit down.”  
“And get stuck here all week? “Look, Youji, I don’t have time for this. I go now or I don’t go at all.”

Jacket. Couldn’t go out without that. Jacket, jacket, jacket… He’d left his jacket in the kitchen. Well, that just figured, didn’t it? Turning his back on his teammate (you want to get snowed in? Well, fine, but you’re on your own, buddy), Ken hurried off to the kitchen, dumping his mug in the sink as he passed by and telling himself Youji could get that. Buried up here for four days, maybe more, with nothing to do but make snowmen, stare out the windows and catch up on his reading… yeah, Youji would be able to find the time in between all those diverting activities to wash up a mug, right? Right.

His jacket was hanging over of one of the chairs, its shoulders still damp from the snow. Good job leather was waterproof, really. Ken shrugged it back on, snatched his gloves from the table where he’d dumped them not an hour back, and walked back into the living room.

“Lend me a scarf, would you?”

Youji raised his head, blinking – you’re still here, Ken? He hadn’t moved, and it was beginning to look rather pointed. He’d managed to find the energy to light a cigarette and drag an ashtray over to his elbow, but that looked to have been the limit of his exertions. Lazy bastard, Ken thought. Then, well, let him. He’ll have more than enough time to sit on his ass in…

“You,” Youji announced as if he were revealing a great and profound truth, “have no romance in your soul.”  
“Romance?”  
“ _Ro_ mance.”  
Ken blinked. He stared at him. “What’s so romantic about being snowed in?”  
“And that,” Youji said with a sigh, “is _exactly_ what I’m talking about.”  
“What is?” Turning his back on Youji again – damn, it looked bad out there; here he was just staring out the window at the snow and already it was nearly enough to make him want to shiver – Ken zipped up his jacket, tugged on his gloves. “Either start making sense,” he said, “or stop talking.”  
“You want me to spell it out? Okay, Ken, try this one for size. Here we are alone in the mountains with just each other and the fire, and all you can think of is flower shops. There’s something wrong with you, kid, and when I find out what it is I’ll be writing a paper on it.”

A paper? What’s that supposed to mean—

Ken nearly, nearly, asked him. Would have done, too, if it hadn’t been for the bit where he’d worked out where Youji was going with the whole _romance_ business and everything else kind of went out the window. If you can’t make one date, find another. That was Youji.

“Oh,” Ken said that one bit too loudly and slightly too fast (dammit, better not be blushing—), “is _that_ what this is about? Well I’m definitely going back now.” (I’m blushing, aren’t I. Shit.)  
“What for?” Youji asked. “So Omi won’t think we’re making the most of this?”  
Well, if he hadn’t been blushing before, he was sure he would be now. Thank God Youji couldn’t see his face. Thank God he had his boots to concentrate on. “I don’t want him starting to…” Ken broke off. Swallowed. “He’ll think… stuff.”  
And Youji chuckled, shaking his head. “Ken,” he said, “remember that afternoon in the stockroom? He’s already thinking things.”

Ken had really rather hoped to forget that afternoon in the stockroom (that, Hidaka, is what comes of listening to the oversexed idiot with the hair instead of your own better judgment) and he’d been doing pretty well, too – and now Youji’d just _had_ to go and remind him. Yeah, he was definitely blushing and if Youji thought he was going to turn round and prove it he was out of his goddamn mind. Okay, change of plans: never mind getting back home before Omi started to wonder or the roads got too bad, he had to get out of here before he either died of embarrassment or punched Youji in the face. Or quite possibly both.

If only it hadn’t looked so nasty out there.

There was a part of Ken that really didn’t want to go anywhere. It was warm in here, warm and dry; the snow, if anything, was only getting heavier. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen snow so heavy, he only knew that it must have been long ago, or maybe it was only in movies. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to go right on back to the fireside with a blanket. Maybe even with Youji – would that really be so bad? They _were_ alone, right? It wasn’t like anyone would see…

There was a part of him, and it wasn’t even a small part, that had a horrible suspicion that Youji had a point.

Straightening, staring right at the cabin door, Ken told it to shut up.

“I’ve got,” he said, and he hoped he said it firmly, “to _go_.”  
“Well,” Youji said from the couch, “if you die of pneumonia, don’t go blaming it on me.”

____

Youji had made one crucial mistake: he’d assumed Ken would be out long enough to catch pneumonia in the first place.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t upside down in a ditch on fire. Ken was, however, in a ditch. He was just flat on his back and frozen to the bone, his left leg painfully pinned beneath his fallen bike, and for a moment all he was thinking was _whoa_. Eyes wide, he blinked up through the gathering dusk at the whirling flakes of snow and why was there no context for this? Last thing he knew he’d been crawling halfway down a mountain on his bike and then – nothing. Whiteout. A few confused moments of noise and motion, a sudden jolt of sheer terror and… and now he was here, on his back in a ditch, and he hadn’t been out more than half an hour.

He must have crashed his bike. Shouldn’t it have been more dramatic than that, not just _oh shit_ and a ditch?

Second thought, cutting through the haze with something approaching clarity: yeah, Youji had been right all right. Mary mother of _God_. I, Ken thought, am never gonna hear the end of this.

Ken pushed himself awkwardly up to his elbows, shoved the bike off him in a couple of convulsive heaves. His hands were shaking as he tried to examine his leg: was that old fear or just the cold? His clothes soaked, snow dusting his hair and insinuating itself uncomfortably down the back of his collar, Ken blamed the storm.

Even then it might still have been all right if he’d only been able to start the bike again. Christ, he hadn’t even been going that fast and here he was stranded on a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm, stood astride a bike (shit, his ankle was fucking killing him!) that had unilaterally decided now was the time to up and die on him… fuming and muttering a curse, Ken got off and kicked it. It didn’t help. It didn’t even make him feel better and in fact made him feel rather worse because you just had to go kick it with the bad foot didn’t you, Hidaka.

Which didn’t leave him with much choice, did it?

Stranded in darkness on the side of a mountain, the cold like a slap in the face, Ken spat another appropriately foul curse at the whirling snow, at the treacherous road and his immobile bike – at himself and at Youji (no, he’d never hear the end of this one!). At the entire fucking ridiculous situation, the kind of stupid goddamn jam only he could have gotten himself into, and shouldn’t he have known better about where his good intentions invariably led?

“Well, _fuck_!”

(Hell would at least have been warm.)

No, he had no choice at all. Couldn’t stay here shivering and courting a nasty cold at the very least on the off-chance that some other idiot would try and bring a car down here. Couldn’t get back to Tokyo – well, what gave that away? – Hell, Ken couldn’t even have gotten down from this stupid mountain, because where would he go after that?

So he started walking back. Gripping his bike’s handlebars, pushing the heavy, useless thing by his side: Mary mother of God, as if he didn’t have enough to piss him off already! But when it was either that or leave it on the roadside… no matter how worthless it was to him right now and no matter how much Ken might have cursed the wretched thing as he forced it back up the road meter by slow, dragging meter, he couldn’t have done that to it. Not to his _bike_. It wasn’t the bike’s fault he’d gone and made an idiot of himself in the middle of the worst blizzard for years, a total fucking idiot!

Nobody came. No cars, no walkers – of course there were no goddamn walkers! – not even a curious fox or something. Anything with any sense was staying out the snow and in the warm. Like Youji.

Ken didn’t know how long he walked for: all he knew was, while it lasted, it felt like a slow, dragging eternity. All the world – all but lost beneath a stifling blanket of snow – was driving snow and biting cold, the wind in his face and the throbbing pain in his ankle, sending bolts of pain stabbing up his leg every time he took a step. He didn’t think. Ken just kept his head down and kept walking, because there was nothing else he could do…

And, a million years later, long after he’d stopped looking out for them or expecting to see them at all, there were the lights of the cabin shining warm through the drifting flakes of snow.

Ken blinked. He might have giggled. Just when he’d gotten so cold he was almost convinced it wouldn’t matter if he got any colder, just as he was finally almost used to the weight of the goddamn bike against his shoulder – just, in short, as he was really starting to _hate_ it – there was the cabin and the end was in sight, and all that was good for was making being out here one second longer feel so much more unbearable. Dragging the bike up the path to the cabin and from there under the eaves, he stumbled toward the door, one hand resting on the wooden walls as much to reassure himself that the fucking place was still there as for support.

If Youji had locked it, Ken thought he was going to do something they’d both regret— but it was open, and Youji could live a little longer.

He stumbled inside, slamming the door behind him, and leant heavily against it with his eyes closed, quite as if he expected the storm to chase him in. All he’d wanted since he walked out the damn cabin was to get back somewhere warm and, now that he had, it was almost too much for him… When he opened his eyes again there was Youji (had the bastard even moved?) raising his eyebrows at him over the pages of a paperback.

“Well, that took—”  
He got no further before Ken cut him off. “Let’s play a game, Youji. Let’s pretend I already know I’m an idiot. Spare me, okay?”

____

The thing about snow was this. Sure, it looked pretty and was fun to mess around in – provided, and this was a crucial part of the whole package, that you could turn around and go right back inside to warm up whenever you wanted – but, where it counted, it was basically delayed-action rain. Which, of course, made it no fun at all.

“What,” Youji asked, “do you think you’re doing?”  
“Shut up and get me a blanket.”

What Ken thought he was doing was taking off his wet clothes and why Youji needed this spelled out for him now when he’d seen it all— he had to be used to it by now was completely beyond him. The major problem with this was that as far as he could work out everything he had on was soaked. Jacket, pants, socks… there was snow in his hair, and it was melting down his neck. He could only have gotten any wetter if he’d decided to take a cold shower while fully-dressed and if he was going to warm up, still less dry off, it was all going to have to go. Now.

“Ken… don’t think I’m complaining or anything but you are aware this isn’t a locker room?”  
Ken, halfway through peeling off the damp tee-shirt that clung to him far too closely for comfort, glanced up and over his shoulder. “Oh, fuck off,” he said, giving Youji a nasty look.“Now’s not the time to decide you’re fed up of seeing me naked and if you are _get me a goddamn blanket_!” He tugged the shirt over his head and off, tossing it to the floor. It went _splat_.  
“How about you forego the blanket?” Youji asked, and grinned an infuriating grin.  
“No,” Ken said shortly. He was wet, he was shivering, his pants didn’t seem to want to come off and he was absolutely not in the mood for Youji’s ridiculous come-ons. “I’m freezing.”  
“And? You brought it on yourself, kid. I don’t see why I should have to suffer too…”  
“Just get me a blanket, Youji,” Ken said. Mentally, he added a _please_ to that. “If I catch bloody pneumonia _now_ it really _will_ be all your fault!”

He didn’t know why, but Youji relented. The look on his face might have done it, or maybe there was something about the way he’d said it – and if only he’d given a damn about any of it. All that mattered to Ken (he was stepping out of his pants now, kicking the damp, clinging things away) was that Youji was clambering to his feet, and even that he did infuriatingly elegantly, then padding over to one of the closets. Retrieving a thick, heavy blanket, he draped it about Ken’s shoulders so carefully he absolutely had to be taking the piss. Looked like someone was going to find himself losing his lighter tomorrow—

Except Youji had one hand resting warm and heavy on his bare shoulder, and that hand lingered there just a fraction too long; a look crept into his sleepy green eyes that, on almost anyone else, Ken might easily have called concern. The boy raised his head, blinking. What the fuck was all that for?

“Damn,” Youji said, “your skin’s like ice.”  
Ken couldn’t help himself: he laughed in sheer incredulity. “What gave that away? The bit where I’ve been stuck out in a blizzard for the last… Christ knows how long?”  
“Nearly two hours,” Youji said, and did that mean he’d been counting? Ken, clinging tightly to the blanket as he fought his way out of the last of his damp clothes, was about to ask how in the world he even knew that only for Youji for forestall him. “You know, Ken” he said, in something that could almost have been admiration, “you did one Hell of a number on yourself out there, didn’t you?”  
“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed. What’s this about, Youji?”  
“Why’s it got to be about anything? Can’t I just be concerned about you?”  
“You,” Ken said firmly, “do not _do_ ‘concern’.” Certainly you don’t do it like this and I’m not a cute girl so you sure as Hell don’t do it about me so… no. Not really, no.  
For a moment Youji looked like he was about to argue. Certainly his mouth was open, his brows drawn sharply downward – except then he just sighed and turned away. Of course, he could actually let shit go. “Fine,” he said wearily. “Fine, Ken. I don’t _do_ concern. Will you at least sit down now? You’re making the place look untidy.”

Well, it wasn’t like he had any other plans and as for pressing engagements, that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place…

It still hurt when he tried to put weight on his left foot; if anything it only hurt worse than before. Ken staggered, he winced; he waved Youji away when the blonde seemed to be about to try and help him back to the fireside, stumbling stubbornly across by himself and collapsing heavily onto one of the couches. What, had he looked like he needed the help or something and don’t even think about answering that, Kudou. He’d done everything else this evening the hard way. Why stop now?

It had hurt, though. Christ almighty it had hurt! Bent over his throbbing ankle, Ken rubbed at it with his fingers, half-hoping he could somehow rub the pain away: sure, some chance of that! When he looked up again Youji was watching him, his expression curiously set. You did a number on yourself all right, Hidaka.

“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” was all he said.  
Ken started, looking up at Youji in sudden panic. First _aid_? What, for a bad ankle? “It’s just a bit sore,” he said, and said it far too quickly. “It’s fine now, really…”  
“Then there’s no harm in letting me take a look at it.”

And Youji turned his back on him. Well, shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. Walked right into that one, Ken…

Okay, so maybe he hadn’t exactly walked.

Youji took his sweet time about finding the first-aid kit. (And didn’t you just haveit, Kudou? This is exactly why we’re up here!) When he finally deigned to show up again he sat himself down by Ken’s side, taking the boy’s left foot in both hands and turning it gently, then pressing cautiously against his still-chilled flesh. Ken winced, biting down on his lower lip: if he couldn’t convince himself that his foot didn’t hurt he could at least try and convince Youji, right? Only problem with that was either Youji knew a Hell of a lot more about the whole first-aid thing than he’d been letting on in front of Omi or he’d suddenly developed a late-flowering foot fetish. Mary mother of God, Ken hardly knew what would be worse…

It was absolutely goddamn ridiculous how… how sophisticated he looked even now. Here they were stuck alone in a mountain cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, and Youji could have been heading off for drinks with James bloody Bond. Even his messed-up hair seemed like it was supposed to look like that. It was exactly the kind of thing that could make a guy feel self-conscious about showing up at a social event wearing a blanket and damn-all else. Shivering, he pulled it more tightly about himself, wishing to God he didn’t feel so naked.

(Well, you practically are.)

“Look, Youji…” he began, “about the _concern_ thing. I didn’t mean…”  
He got no further. “No wonder it’s hurting. You’ve fractured it.”  
“Huh?” Fractured what?  
“Your ankle, Ken,” Youji said as if it should have been obvious. “It’s fractured. When were you planning to tell me you came off your bike, kid? I told you to stay home.”

It should have sounded pointed, but it didn’t. Maybe Youji figured he’d suffered enough.

Youji patted his leg briefly, above the… the break, Ken supposed, because it didn’t hurt and didn’t feel like it had been meant to. He watched Youji do it, then met his eyes: Youji wasn’t smiling, wasn’t doing anything at all but looking back at him as if he didn’t know what the Hell he was meant to do with him, like he was expecting something from him. What was that, then? There was something he should have been saying, but Ken couldn’t work out what that was for the life of him. All he was thinking was _oh_. That explained the pain, he guessed…

He looked away, at the window, at the storm trapped behind the glass. Three days, maybe more, before the roads would be clear enough to get a car down – it’d have to be a car now with his bike all fucked up and his ankle looking no better – and what did that mean except now they were both stuck?

“Christ, Youji,” Ken said, so quietly he barely caught it over the crackle of the flames. “What the Hell am I going to do?”  
“Nothing,” Youji said. Then, when Ken seemed about to protest: “You’re going to stay put. I’ll see to your ankle.”  
Ken stared at him like he’d just announced he was going to go into the kitchen and grow an extra head. “You are.”  
“I don’t see anyone else round here who can do it. For God’s sake, Ken. I’m trying to do you a favor so the least you can do is shut up and accept it. Don’t you think you’ve been quite daft enough for one evening?”  
“Um. You gonna make me answer that?”  
Youji laughed, reaching for the first-aid kit. Shook his head. “Just hold still.”

And if they’d been anywhere else, in any other situation but this one, Ken might well have ignored him – but in any other situation Youji would never have asked in the first place. He certainly wouldn’t have been sitting there with Ken’s foot in his lap, reaching for the first-aid kit and a roll of crepe bandage.

It was weird how intimate it felt (it wasn’t like it _did_ anything for him but it kinda tickled, and maybe if he’d been wearing slightly more than damn near nothing it wouldn’t have felt so—) and almost a relief that Youji really wasn’t very good at it. He tore the package with his teeth, dropped the crepe, frowned over the instructions; a hank of hair fell into his face as he was wrapping the bandages about Ken’s ankle, and his head jerked irritably as he tried to toss it back again. Ken could have told him not to bother: no more than thirty seconds later it all fell right back into Youji’s face again, but this time he just breathed a curse and let it be.

“No offense, Youji,” Ken said, “but you kinda suck at this.”  
Youji hesitated, hands on Ken’s ankle. “So,” he said, “why exactly did you bother saying _no offense_?”  
“Well, you are.” Because trying to dig his way out the holes he dug for himself had clearly been working so well for Ken so far. “I mean, not that I don’t appreciate it, but… you need to pull it tighter, okay?”  
“Tighter?” Youji looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “With the way you’re wincing? This is a Hell of a time to discover you’re a masochist, Ken.”  
Predictably, Ken colored. If Youji’s head had been any closer and he hadn’t been clinging for grim death to the blanket, he was sure he would have tried to hit him. “Shut up! It doesn’t hurt and it’s no goddamn good putting the bandage on if it’s too loose to do shit!”  
“Okay,” Youji said; he was fighting back a grin and that just made Ken want to hit him some more. “If you say so. You know, kid, you really need to get better at lying.”

But he bent back over Ken’s ankle, unwinding the bandage and pulling it tight before clumsily wrapping it back around again. Ken closed his eyes, clutching the blanket so tightly his fingers ached: if it didn’t hurt, how good a splint could it be? At least this time round the thing felt slightly less loose than a schoolgirl’s sock—

“ _Ow_! Fuck, _Youji_!”  
“What’d I tell you? It’s just gonna—”  
“Yeah,” Ken said through gritted teeth, “yeah, it’s meant to. Don’t tell me you never sprained your ankle.”  
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Youji said airily. “You’re the one who thinks chasing a ball through the mud qualifies as fun. Stay here, okay?”

He stuck a safety pin through the end of the bandage, quick and sure; Ken flinched slightly, though he had felt nothing. It had looked like it should have hurt, that was all. Patting his foot – you need to move that, kid – Youji got back up, disappearing into the kitchen and leaving Ken looking after him. What the Hell did the guy think he was doing? Ken was about to call after him when Youji reappeared holding a tumbler of water, handing it to him without a word.

(Okay, Youji, okay. I’m sorry I said you didn’t do concern…)

But water was water was water, and it really shouldn’t have tasted like acrid strawberries.

“What the fuck’s in this?”  
“Tramadol,” Youji said as if it were obvious. Then – and why the Hell didn’t you tellme before I drank it? – he added, “And you can stop looking at me like that. You know damn well if I’d asked if you wanted a painkiller you’d have told me a really obvious lie and then we’d have had an argument, which you’d have lost. I figured I’d cut to the chase. And, speaking of which…”  
“Has anyone ever told you,” Ken said, “that you talk too damn much?”  
“Yes,” Youji said, “you do, constantly. But talking of cutting to the chase, we should probably call it a night.”

Well, there were two ways of handling this one. There was starting another argument over whether or not he started arguments all the time, which – now Ken stopped to think about it, which he didn’t do anywhere near enough – wouldn’t be good for much else but proving Youji’s point for him, or he could shut up and go to sleep. Well, bed. (This was _Youji_ and didn’t he just know it but the guy had too much romance in his soul, far, far too much.) At any rate, lie down. It was that or an argument and Ken’d had quite enough of those for one day.

So he said _okay, whatever_ and, drawing the blanket more tightly about himself, he pushed himself up and off the couch. Took one hesitant step toward the stairs, hissing in pain and surprise and too much of both at the spike of pain that shot through his leg as he tried to put weight on his bandaged foot—

“I said,” Youji said from somewhere far too close at hand, his voice low and insinuating, “stay put.”

And, before Ken could ask what he thought he meant by that, Youji was yanking him bodily off his feet and into his arms. If the boy cursed him for it and smacked him about the head, that was a price he was prepared to pay for finally getting his enchanted evening three hours and one broken ankle late.

“Fuck, Youji! What the _Hell_ do you think you’re _doing_!”  
Yeah, that probably had been a stupid question. Youji thought he was sweeping him off his feet, sense and logistics be damned, because Youji was a romantic idiot. “Damn,” the blonde was muttering through clenched teeth as he settled Ken more comfortably against his chest, “Richard Gere never had to deal with this, what’ve you been eating, rocks?”  
“You think I’m too heavy then _put me do_ —”

Ken got no further.

Clearly Youji thought he talked too much, too.

____

Ken didn’t know what time it was. The rays of the weak winter sun that slanted across his face, burnishing the shrouded hills and treetops in gentle gold, told him it was daylight, but that was all he knew. Outside the window the snow fell in silent flurries, the flakes tossed and crazed by the wind as they spiraled to the ground. Like static, he thought, like nothing at all. He watched it incuriously for a moment through half-lidded eyes then turned his back on it, pressing closer to Youji’s sleeping form. Of course the sunlight hadn’t woken _him_.

Sighing, Ken closed his eyes again and tried to pretend he didn’t feel bad about it. He needed a shower, he needed to call Omi and tell him they weren’t dead, if the phones even worked any more, and like it or not he probably needed more of that strawberry pain stuff. There were so many things he should have been doing…

But he was still tired and aching and his ankle hurt, and it was cold outside.

 

-ende-


End file.
